


Best Baker (in Hell)

by vicsmoria



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Friendship/Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 12:49:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20675654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vicsmoria/pseuds/vicsmoria
Summary: As a demon, there's a certain image you're trying to make for yourself. You wind up failing (miserably).





	Best Baker (in Hell)

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally a simple tumblr request but i had a lot of fun with it! i've only written an angel character before so doing a 180 and making a demon gal was great! this was more silly than most of my other work but i think it's pretty neat. as always, enjoy.

“Boo!” ****

Aziraphale jolts back in his chair with a yelp at the unexpected intrusion, knocking over a stack of books in the process. The discordance is paired with mischievous giggling followed by a heavy sigh, courtesy of Crowley. 

“Told ya it would spook him!” You continue to titter, wrapping your arms around Crowley’s neck as you float behind him. Crowley rolls his eyes from behind his glasses and regards you from over his shoulder.

“Boo? Really? Are you a thousand years old?” You respond to his reprimands with a pout. 

“It was funny!” 

Aziraphale begs to differ as he miracles the mess back into order with a snap of his fingers. “Hello you two,” he says, exasperated already. Crowley acknowledges his friend with a nod and you a salute, now floating leisurely on your back. 

“My dear, you’re corporeal now. You can walk, you have legs.” Aziraphale explains with the same sternness of a chiding mother. 

You purse your lips again. “But that means effort. And this,” you cross your legs and elevate them in the air, “is _much _more fun.” 

“But if a human were to come in and see-“ Aziraphale begins but you interrupt with your own snap. The locks to his bookshop turn up with a _click_. 

“There, problem solved.” You say simply, holding your palm out to Crowley for a high-five. He complies. You lower your over-sized sunglasses (you vehemently brag that they’re Gucci), revealing pitch black eyes and shoot Aziraphale a wink. 

Aziraphale pinches the bridge of his nose, saying a silent prayer for his patience. “Right,” he begins before taking a seat again, pulling out a file full of various documents. “Now that the two of you have arrived-“

You eye the papers with contempt. “Wait,” you interject yet again, “are we _actually _here to do work?” Aziraphale looks at you incredulously. Crowley has opted to stay out of it, pouring himself a glass of red wine before plopping down on the couch. 

“Y-yes of course. Now that Armageddon has been successfully thwarted we must plan for the new future! Managing Adam’s powers, proper schooling for him, and-“ 

“Yeah yeah that all sounds grand. And very boring.” You fake a yawn and motion for Crowley to pass the wine. 

“Boring?!” 

“She’s not wrong,” Crowley adds casually, earning him a shocked gasp from the angel. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale cannot believe what he is hearing. Crowley shrugs nonchalantly in response and you snicker playfully. 

“Well you two can hash it out, figure out all the details. Azi, just come over later and fill me in.” You say with a dismissive wave.

“But-“

“Toodles!” And with that you vanished, presumably returning to your own abode. Aziraphale is left dumbfounded; Crowley seems unsurprised with how the afternoon is turning out. 

“She is…” Aziraphale begins, nerves frayed.

“Something else? I know, you’ve previously mentioned.” Crowley offers Aziraphale a well needed glass of Cabernet.

* * *

After hours of much deliberation, meticulously crossing the t’s and dotting the i’s, Aziraphale and Crowley successfully mapped out the next ten years of Adam’s life and then some. While it would’ve gone by quicker if you were a willing participant, it seems you were not fond of working, physical or mental.

Aziraphale runs a hand through his hair (which he heavily considered tearing out due to frustration) and heads for your flat. It’s conveniently in the same complex as Crowley’s; Aziraphale has the route memorized and thoroughly enjoys the walk. 

He takes the time to reflect. The world is safe from needless slaughter - humanity can continue to thrive. And it’s all because of the friendship between demons and an angel. Yet despite all these victories, Aziraphale can’t place why you are being so lackadaisical about…well _everything_. 

Crowley had said you spent a majority of your time when you were in office at Circle 5 - Sloth. And even when you decided to “grace” Hell with your presence, as you often put it, you would just sunbathe next to the River Styx. In contrast to doing any of your assigned clerical duties, or anything work related at all.

Yet when Armgeddon came knocking on Earth’s door, you were there alongside them to eagerly answer the call. 

_Quite strange indeed_, Aziraphale muses as he approaches your door. He gives the wood three polite knocks and awaits your response. 

Nothing. 

He tries again, this time with a call of your name. And once again he is met with the same silence. 

“Oh for Heaven’s sake!” Aziraphale’s patience has already waned dangerously thin; he just wants to give you an overview of today’s happenings and get back home. While he typically tries to avoid debauchery of any kind, he is too exhausted to follow his usual principles. 

Aziraphale looks to both ends of the corridor to ensure the coast is clear before miracling your door open. Being frivolous with his powers wasn’t a concern anymore thankfully.

Your door unlatches effortlessly and Aziraphale escorts himself inside. He doesn’t think he’s ever set foot in your flat before - you weren’t prone to company. But just from the entryway he can deduce that this place definitely belongs to you. 

Red velvet drapes cover the windows with ornate patterns stitched in gold along their borders. Your carpets seem to mimic that same style: burgundy rugs covering rich mahogany floors. Adorning the walls are a variety of paintings; Aziraphale might be imagining things but he swears you have the original “Birth of Venus”. He thinks it wise to not ask how you acquired that for your collection. 

Aziraphale might have thought he wandered into a demonic opera house had it not been for the aroma of baked goods wafting in the air. Their sweetness was almost palpable and he wished to seek the origins of these confections. 

The trail led him to your kitchen, constructed entirely of marble and equipped with the finest of appliances. You had your back to him, idly whisking a bowl of batter and humming softly to yourself. 

There was none of your usual rigidness or arsenal of snarky comments being slung every which way. You were relaxed, peacefully baking (a skill Aziraphale admittedly didn’t think you capable of). Aziraphale thought you almost looked…

“Angelic…” 

He hadn’t meant to speak that sentiment aloud and you squeal in surprise. The bowl slips from your grasp, splattering its contents all over your floor; a simple wave of your hand soon rectifies the mess. You spin around, horrified to meet Aziraphale’s giddy smile. He was practically bouncing on his feet at this discovery. You pull your sunglasses back down to cover the shame in your eyes. 

“You never told me you baked!” Aziraphale chirps, clasping his hands together. The red tint that adorns your cheeks is positively adorable; Aziraphale has never seen you so flustered! He didn’t think bashful was listed in your range of emotions to be perfectly honest. 

You pathetically sputter, trying to conjure up some sort of excuse but coming up short. Would he believe you if you said you were attempting to poison the nasty old lady who lived next door? Probably not. 

“Who, _me_? Bake? Don’t be preposterous, Azi!” The angel just continues to beam at you, much to your chagrin.

“Oh, so who made that stack of crepes then?” He motions to the plate filled with a generous portion of fresh crepes, still steaming. Your flush intensifies. 

“I-I have no idea! How peculiar…”

Aziraphale says your name like the coo of a dove, urging the truth from you. He’ll continue to persist, and you sigh in defeat at the realization that you just don’t have the energy to combat him. You silently reprimand yourself for your incessant laziness. 

“Fine, fine,” you begin with a dismissive wave. Aziraphale’s smile only widens at your admission. “If you must know, I enjoy baking from time to time. It feels nice, the manual labor that is…” You feel painfully sheepish all of a sudden. 

“And…all of these are for you?” It’s an earnest question poised with so much sweetness it hurts your teeth. 

“No,” you mumble. Transparency has never been one of your strong suits but Aziraphale has a talent for changing people. Crowley can personally attest to that. “They’re for you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen in shock. “For me?” He parrots and you scoff. How dare he have the audacity to make you admit this not once but _twice_. 

“Yes you!” You bark. When he flinches you feel a pang where your heart should be and you soften your tone. Pursing your lips, you cross your arms over your chest like a petulant child. After centuries of exposure to your mannerisms, Aziraphale found himself admitting that they were actually quite sweet. What a shift - from Hellish to cute in the span of a day. 

“I,” you pause, mulling over your words. He awaits them with bated breath. “I felt bad for leaving you and Crow alone. So I…wanted to make it up to you, I guess.” You admit shyly. It wasn’t much, but you figured you could play it off as a gesture of good faith from a local bakery. Wishful thinking in retrospect. 

Aziraphale helps himself to a seat at your kitchen island, littered with bowls of fruit and whipped cream. He’s already gone to work on preparing himself a crepe filled to the brim with all the proper fixings. 

“Aren’t you going to join me?” Aziraphale asks, patting the empty stool next to him. Once again you find heat rushing to your face. How could an angel such as himself be so unconditionally hospitable to a nefarious Hell-inhabitant? And you thought you were the strange one. 

You grumble some nonsense under your breath and comply with his request. Aziraphale is certainly pleased as punch. He continues helping himself to your hard work (it was meant for him after all) and moaning in delight with each bite. Your heart beats wildly against your ribs; you must be dying. 

“These are absolutely scrumptious, my dear.” He says with a sincerity you’re still not used to. It’s hard to reciprocate but you try your best. One step at a time.

“Thanks…” you grouse, but the appreciation is there. Aziraphale hears it - he always will.

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to request me prompts of any kind. i'm (slowly) starting to get them in my inbox and they fill me with so much joy.


End file.
